Crossing Bridges
by RyderBPD
Summary: *7* Liz moves down to New York, but the sparks between her and Flack quickly turn into dangerous flames. Can their love survive? Rated M for my two favorite S's: Swearin' and Sex.
1. Mind the Gap

Author's Note: Our two heroes reach a crossroads in their once-serene relationship. Can they get past this huge bump in the road?

Just as with the other Beantown/Big Apple installments, I've tried to make this as non-AU as possible. And just as with the others, I don't own CSI:NY.

Enjoy!

* * *

Crossing Bridges

The ceaseless noises of New York City had begun making their way through the window at 4 AM. Cars honking, shops opening, neighbors greeting one another with everything from curses to clapped backs. Brooklyn came to life even in the absence of the sun; three weeks of thick clouds had choked out any hopes of a clear and crisp February. _Damn La Nina, _went the conventional wisdom at the newspaper stands. _Rather trade the rain for the snow those shmucks are gettin' out in Seattle. _

The weather was the last thing on Doctor Liz Ryder's mind, however. As she stirred and stretched her pale arms over her head, she felt the fabric of her black tank top twist uncomfortably around her stomach. She wasn't used to sleeping in clothes, but recent events coupled with some serious self-consciousness had led her to don pajamas for the first time since her days as a little girl back in Southie. The redheaded Sox fan then shifted between the sheets and sighed as she laid eyes on the man whose chest was peacefully rising and falling only inches away.

Detective Don Flack had at first been overjoyed at Liz's moving in four months prior. Grinning like a child, he'd taken her to all his secret spots around the city, the two sharing long kisses as the fading light of fall enveloped them in a glow of content. But winter's arrival had brought more than just physical clouds. A mass of grey had descended upon the long-separated lovers like impenetrable fog; suddenly the harmonious melding of two lives into one space had become the lighting of a pair of powder kegs. And this past week had been the worst of it.

_Maybe if we could just get some time alone,_ Liz thought. Although if she were to be truly honest with herself, it was the times they were one-on-one that had been the most unbearable. It would be easy to think that the emotions associated with Lindsay's departure and Liz's complicated workload were to blame for their problems. And yet it was far from the truth.

_Or maybe it's the no-sex thing. _Liz and Flack hadn't made love, fucked, or even touched each other successfully in a month—rather unusual for a couple who'd always found places for each other's hands on their skin. It seemed like every time one of them tried to start something, the other would have to stop. And not due to the buzzing of a phone or the ping of a new email. He couldn't last more than a few minutes, and sometimes she didn't want it at all.

Liz figured, though, that this was no reason to give up, and as she swept her gaze over Don's defined muscles she could feel her silky striped panties begin to dampen. Age was still no match for the sexiness of Donald Flack Junior, and Liz had never been able to deny the effect his body had on her.

Slipping her tank top off and tossing it to the floor Dr. Ryder slid back beneath the covers and pressed her full breasts into Flack's back. She began placing light kisses on his neck, trying desperately with each one to show her love for the NYC native with whom she shared a bed. She told him how much she cared every single day. . .and yet recently it was like he hadn't heard her. Or it just didn't register.

Moving from his neck down to his shoulders, Liz found herself getting wetter with each kiss. As she met his skin with her mouth she began to suck at it with greater force. Marks began to appear on the Detective's back and Liz couldn't stop herself from sliding her long fingers around his cut stomach and into his boxers.

Encircling his shaft with her hand she stroked his already-hard cock lightly until he began to stir. "Mmmmhhh," he moaned, still halfway in the land of dreams. "Feels good."

"Good," she whispered in his ear, trying to be seductive. Honestly, it'd been so long she wasn't sure she knew how anymore. "Just relax and enjoy it."

Somehow Liz's words unfortunately backfired as they bounced around Don's brain. He thought about the last month of failed physical sessions and instantly felt a pang of anxiety shoot through his body. _No,_ he told himself. _No, dammit! My gorgeous girlfriend is naked and wakin' me up with a hand job and I am NOT gonna fuck it up this time. _

To stave off impending softness between his legs he turned over and rolled right on top of his surprised bedmate. Flack gripped her wrists with his hands and ground his cock against Liz's underwear. She gasped at the delicious contact before letting her lips spread wide into a grin. "Mmmm, _Detective_," she chided. "I thought I was the one in charge here."

"Not anymore, Doc," he responded, and began hungrily attacking her neck. He couldn't kiss her fast enough—each inch of her skin tasted like a life-force he'd been without for too long. Like water to a man dying of thirst in the desert. "You taste so damn good, Lizzie," he panted between kisses. Then his voice changed and found that lower register that never failed to set her body on fire: "I'm gonna fuck you so hard, baby. . .gonna make that pussy feel so damn good."

Flack consumed her with everything in his power now: pulling at her glowing white body with teeth, lips and tongue. He wanted to leave glaring red signs of ultimate possession in his wake—wanted the world to know that Liz belonged to him and no one else.

He now braced himself for the feel of her nails. She kept them short for her basketball league, but damn did they do their job when it came to ripping up his back. But now it was Liz whose brain would not remain silent. It was Liz whose mind wandered to the feelings of disappointment and masked frustration that had accompanied their recent attempts at sex.

_No, no, no!_ She screamed internally. _My hot, ripped cop of a boyfriend is on top of me and wants to fuck me until I scream. I am NOT going to ruin this again. _

Breathing heavier now, Don tore his mouth from Liz's ear and roughly pushed his face into her chest. In doing so he had to let go of her wrists, and Liz seized the opportunity to sink her hands into his thick hair. He sucked and pinched her nipples until she was wailing in pleasure at the pain, and as a result reached out to rip his boxers off. He responded by doing the same to those tiny, tight panties.

The façade could not last, though. For all the while that these external machinations were taking place, both Liz and Flack were fighting mental wars with themselves.

"That feel good, baby? You want some more of that?" _Fuck, I'm getting close already. . .what am I, a teenager? Some damn horny kid?_

"You know I love it when you're up against my pussy, D. Oh God, I want you inside me so bad." _Oh, shit. . .I'm drying up. . .my body's going numb. . .why can't I feel the amazing things he's doing to me? Goddammit!_

And all at once it was over. The instant his tip passed into her pussy, he couldn't control himself. Liz tried not to twist her face in disgust but felt cheated as his cum covered her inner lips.

The look in his ice-blue eyes could have broken hearts across Manhattan. "Sh-shit, Lizzie. . .I. . . ."

"I know," she said quickly. "It's okay." O_ne more time I say it. . . but don't mean it. _

While Flack dropped his head into shaking hands, Dr. Ryder picked up her tank top, struggled into it, and ran for the safety of the bathroom.

She did not want him to see her cry.


	2. Fires Within

**Author's Note: Some mention of youth suicide in this chapter. The name of the victim was completely fabricated by yours truly.**

Chapter 2

Fires Within

The blue-gray smoke swirls about my head in a fog, seemingly attempting to swallow me up as it transforms into a consuming maelstrom. I can feel it penetrate everything I'm wearing—feel it seep into the woven fibers of my houndstooth coat, settle amongst the threads of my gold scarf and of course wriggle into each and every strand of limp red hair on my head.

I haven't had a cigarette in years, partially due to my running but mostly because as a doctor there's no way to claim ignorance of nicotine's harmful effects. Sheer shrinks might have the luxury of lying to themselves about death sticks, but not us combos. It'd make me a damn big hypocrite if I sped up a session telling a patient not to puff whilst on her new drugs so I could run out and light up on my own.

But the curse of being a "brain drainer" (Don used to call me that when we first met) is that you know exactly why you're turning back to a bad habit. You can pinpoint the triggers that reach out, grab hold of your sanity and tear it momentarily away from the rest of your life. I smoked a lot when Matty died. When PK died. When Mom died.

And although nobody's croaked this time, my relationship feels like it's on life support.

As if to prove my point, the cig's paper burns down to leave a scrap of ash precariously hanging from its end. But I'm not ready to let it drop yet, so I suck another lung's worth of smoke into my chest in an attempt to pull it back.

The day had begun with such promise, Don lightly kissing my lips goodbye as the sun peeked over the horizon. "Later, beautiful," he'd grinned, whistling as the early March wind snuck up and blew out his peacoat tails with a rush. He'd seemed happier recently. . .still no sex but a massage here, some hot mutual masturbation there. We were finally climbing out of the blackness that had settled down the middle of our bed.

And then I got to work this morning. It wasn't that I'd had a bad subway ride or encountered any more psychos than normal today. No, my attention and temper were captivated by the TV I turned on after arriving in the office. Good thing I'd come in early—at least 30 minutes before my first patient.

"Sad story coming out of Tampa this morning, Jim," the too-blonde anchorwoman was saying. "Jesse Marsden was by all accounts a bright, well-liked kid. But he seems to have been the target of bullying for quite some time now. . . ."

And as my saddened heart broke in my chest, the requisite pictures flashed across the screen: one of Jesse smiling for the camera, with piercing bright blue eyes that would have captivated any man lucky enough to love him. . .the grieving mother in disbelief that her baby boy was really gone. . .the somber looking school officials swearing that they'd done everything in their power to discourage the name calling—the taunting—the intimidating—the texting—the Facebook posts—and so on.

Why it was the stapler that got hurled against the wall just to the right of the TV I don't know. Just the closest thing with some heft to it, I figure now.

That first hollow, burnt-out piece of ash hits the cold stone step just inches away from my new dark red Manolos. I glance down near the heel and want to be happy upon seeing their shiny patent leather, but all they remind me of tonight is blood. That poor kid's blood that he spilt all over his light blue bedspread. I find myself being disgustingly grateful that he took some painkillers before raking the knife across his wrists. _Maybe_ _it didn't hurt so bad that way. _

Each patient I saw today seemed to take Jesse's death and drive it deeper into my being. A freshman struggling with coming out to his parents. A senior realizing she was in love with her best girlfriend. A transfer student remembering times of teasing from back in his high school days. By the time I got home the Furies were raging away inside me, just begging to get out.

As I'd entered our building's elevator I comforted myself with the thought of talking to Don. Although he'd never really dealt with "the gay thing" in his family, he was a man who believed deeply in leaving people the fuck alone when it came to bedroom activities. D always expressed remorse that he never got to meet Matty, yeah, but he'd also taken the time to get to know Jack. Treated my brother-in-law the same way he's treated Danny—a bereft husband. My man would give a sympathetic ear.

Sitting here now I wonder if I did come in more quietly than normal. I'd internalized everything from the day so intensely that perhaps my silence spilled over into my gait.

Whatever the case, when I got in the house I set my purse on the couch as always. I moved to take my jacket off when I heard a groan emanate from the bedroom:

"Unnnhhh. . . ."

You never know what New York City's going to bring you along with your dinner, so I moved closer to the door—baseball bat now in hand. I could hear what sounded like, like hammering almost, the sound of metal slapping into wood over and over again.

Another sound came from within: "Oh, yeah. . .there you go."

Slowly smoldering rage from the day turned into white-hot lightning at the prospect that Flack was fucking someone else in _our_ bed. I kicked the door open with my heel and burst into the room.

Sitting there in his computer chair with his cock in one hand and the mouse in the other, Don had an anguished look on his face. "Jesus Christ, Liz!" he yelled. "You scared me!"

My incredulity could not be masked. "Oh, I'm sorry," I shot back, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Did I interrupt your deep intellectual time with the Marisa Miller twins?" I gestured to the porno with a painted red nail, which he rapidly closed. "What're their names, Sugar and Candy?"

Despite his still-massive erection, Don managed to regain a firmer grasp on reality first. "Baby, I'm sorry you had to see that, ok? I didn't think you were gonna be home for a while."

"Should I leave and come back later, then? Give you time to finish blowing your load?"

"Liz, I—"

"No, no, that's okay! I'm sure this is why you've been so damn happy lately. I was just an idiot to think that it had anything to do with me!"

With that I turned and left the love of my life sitting half-naked in the desk chair, hazy from the loss of blood to his brain and no doubt confused by his girlfriend's outburst.

I knew I'd been an idiot the second I reached the stoop. Still, I wasted no time in crying and feeling sorry for myself. How was Don to know that my day had stirred up long-dormant sentiments; had opened scars that I thought were completely healed?

The flame and the filter are now as close together as they can be. I take a last long drag into my chest and let the smoke sear my insides. Let it try to burn some life back into the numb bitch I was an hour ago. I came down here to NY so Don and I could be together. So we wouldn't have to keep spending our nights apart.

But something is dreadfully wrong, and I haven't been able to pinpoint it inside of myself yet—so I've pinpointed it elsewhere. I had thought we were past these days of hatred in America, beyond the bullying that gets bad enough for a young man to take his life. Clearly, though, we have miles to go. . .and I don't feel like I've done enough on this journey. There must be something more that I can do to ensure that the world learns to love those like my brother as much as I loved my brother.

Tonight, though, I've a different love to mend. As a shrink I know that Don pleasing himself is healthy and a good thing given all the troubles we've had lately. Hell, I should've asked to help! But the tired and worried girlfriend in me could not be so sane.

So I stand up, grind the last of the cigarette into dust with my blood-red shoes, and leave the curling smoke to blend with the New York night.


	3. Others, Part I

**Chapter 3**

**Others, Part I**

_I know that you're somebody else's guy _

_But these feelings that I have for you I can't deny_

_She doesn't treat you the way you want her to_

_So come on stop running, I wanna get with you_

_What your girl don't know won't hurt her_

_Anything to make this love go further_

-SWV, "You're The One" 

"Let's Go Rangers, LET'S GO!"

The bar was crowded, stuffed with screaming hockey fans in their red, white and blue. Even in the midst of what appeared to be chaos and stress Flack could feel his muscles release. He'd been tight for weeks, ever clenched from analyzing, battling, compromising and reconciling with Liz. He tipped his beer towards his lips and felt the liquid bliss of Guinness slide down the back of his throat. _None of that damn Boston Lager tonight,_ he thought.

He shifted his gaze from glass back to Gaborik and the game, and in doing so became aware of a striking scent that wafted over the bar stool beside him. Upon actually turning his body towards what smelled like cinnamon and some flower or another, Flack's eyes were greeted with a head of long, jet-black hair—hair that was currently being nervously tied behind its owner's head as she bit her lip and scowled worriedly at the TV. "Dammit, boys!" she shouted. "Get your act together, huh?"

She was clad in one of ERIXSON's home jerseys, something that surprised Don. Most fans he knew tended to stick with Callahan or Lundqvist. Staal, even. But Erixson? _Givin' props to the New York boy. Wonder if she knows him._ A line change provided a quick break in the action, and the as such the woman turned to look Flack in the face.

He was glad she ended up speaking first, because her beauty jumped up and knocked the wind out of his chest immediately. Dark brown eyes, full lips and olive-colored skin that bore a hint of pink. She blew an abandoned strand of hair out of her face in exasperation and shook her head.

"Don't know what's wrong with these clowns tonight. They're makin' Winnipeg look like the damn Canucks."

Flack snapped out of his haze long enough to agree with a nod, taking a sip of his beer to buy a few precious seconds. To remember his own name, primarily.

"No joke," Don uttered emphatically. "Only thing I can figure is it's the beginning of the season. They keep pullin' this crap and we can kiss the playoffs goodbye."

Her frown morphed to first reveal very straight, white teeth and then finally a smile. The slight hint of laugh lines could be seen even in the dark of the bar, for she wore no makeup. "God, I hope it's Tortorella that goes," she said, dismissing the very idea of the head coach's existence with a wave of her small hand. "The man spends more time on his hair than he does puttin' together lines."

The two brunettes fell silent for a moment, each appreciating the instant camaraderie. "I'm Eva," she said, extending her hand to meet Flack's. "Don," he said simply, enclosing her fingers with his massive palm. Her skin was warm and soft, radiating even more of that intoxicating aroma he'd picked up earlier. As he continued to grasp Eva's right hand, he thought about his left. More specifically, about how there was no ring on it._ I love Lizzie. I do. I know I do- but she's not here tonight. I just want a few hours of fun. . .no drama, no cryin', no feelin' bad. _

Flack released the fingers of the woman sitting next to him and leaned into the space between their bodies.

"All right, Eva," he said, dusting off one of his old flirty faces. "So what's up with this Erixson jersey, anyway?"


	4. Others, Part II

Chapter 4

Others, Part II

_DJ won't you play this girl a love song_

_She really needs to hear this freakin' love song_

_She's lookin' at me kinda hard_

_I can tell that things ain't right on the home front_

_What she really needs is a G like me to beat it, beat it, beat beat it beat it_

Jamie Foxx, "DJ Play A Love Song"

"Excuse me, miss?"

Hands teeming with briefcase and heavy coat, Liz spun around on the hotel's ugly-patterned carpet to face the voice emanating from behind her back. Upon completing her revolution she was met with a gorgeous sight: the smiling face of a handsome black man now fixing his eyes on her twin irises of green. In his outstretched hand lay Dr. Ryder's iPhone, angrily flashing with the signs of texts and voicemails. As though it could sense it had been abandoned.

"Holy wow, thank you!" Liz exclaimed, relief spreading over her face. "I'd have been f—uh, screwed without this." She brushed a few rogue red strands of hair out of her face and returned the gentleman's smile with a brilliant one of her own. While completing the phone transfer from savior to owner the hands of each party met for a brief moment—and as Liz's pale slender fingers brushed against the chocolate-colored skin of the mystery man, the good Doctor felt a rush of excitement shoot down her arm. She pulled back and caught her breath, returning the furious smartphone to her pocket.

Quickly she extended her hand once more, desperate for another hit. "I'm Liz," she said. "Doctor Elizabeth Ryder 'round here." She swept her arm back towards the hotel ballroom, decked out with a sign. "75TH ANNUAL _NEW ENGLAND ASSOCIATION OF PRIVATE PSYCHOLOGY PRACTIONERS'_ CONFERENCE," it proclaimed in a font obviously chosen in haste.

"Damon Davis," her counterpart simply said. His hand was deliciously smooth in parts, yet she could feel the deep-seeded calluses of an athlete ingrained into its skin as well. "And I know who you are. Your paper on female patients and their physical needs helped shape some of my own interactions with clients; really gave me a new perspective on how to care for women."

Liz was stunned. Nobody in her current NY universe had ever _read_ a paper of hers, never mind used it. It felt like an eon before she managed to recover:

"Well, thank you, Dr. Davis. That paper was certainly a labor of love—as in, I loved the idea but I felt like I was going into labor when I got to the publishing portion. Not many journals are into daylighting the links between psychiatric disorders and menstrual cycles."

"Please, it's Damon," came the warm reply.

She smiled again and barely managed to stop the blood from flooding into her cheeks. "So did you give any small group presentations this weekend? I didn't get the chance to look at the program."

The Taye Diggs look-alike in front of her nodded, but cast his eyes downward. "I did, yes—but I don't think it went real well. Led about 10 or so practitioners in discussing what brought them to psychology in the first place. . .I swear, Liz, some of them couldn't even remember. Seems like the profession's being dominated by nothing but insurance benefits and ICD-9 codes these days."

_Oh Lord, _Liz thought. _I like the way he says my name. . .and his as well. Da-mohn. Damon. Sounds like Don. . .dammit. _

She nodded earnestly, snapped back from her internal reverie. "It's true," she sighed. "A lot of the folks I used to work with up here seem like they're having a hard time caring anymore."

"You used to practice here too? I had an office in Roxbury before moving down to New York last year. S'why I attended this weekend."

"Shut up," Liz said, looking skeptical. "I grew up there."

"No way! How 'bout that." Both shrinks fell silent. Liz could feel the line between idle chat and an evening's worth of conversation stretched out before her, just begging to be crossed. _I should go to my room right now. Call Don, say good night and get the fuck into bed __right now__. _Her jaw tightened, though, as she thought of what the hell she'd say to the man she'd been at odds with for months. B_aby, I love you—I do—but I just want __one __night of no crying. . .no fuming. . .no feeling bad. A few hours of fun._

One of Liz's long-discarded playful looks graced her open face.

"Well, Damon," she began to query in her thick Boston accent, "What does the rescuer of a mobile phone drink, anyway?"


	5. Six-Packed

Six-Packed

The door to the apartment opens slowly. I glare at what walks through it same as I've been glarin' at the wood itself for the last hour. Liz tiredly steps through the doorway, suitcase rolling behind her like a pathetic partner at the end of a shift. I take a sip of my latest beer and clear my throat.

"Flight delayed?" She deserves a whole sentence, really. . .but I can't seem to speak to her in more than fragments these days.

"Yeah," she replies distractedly, brushing a flame-red strand of hair out of her face—_is it more messed up than usual? Some guy at the conference? If she did what I almost did with that Eva g-_and heading to the fridge. "Fuck JetBlue."

"How come you didn't text me?"

"I figured you'd be on shift. Didn't want to bug you."

"It's Wednesday, Liz. I don't work Wednesday nights, '_member_?"

That last pointed word catches her off guard and she almost drops the soda she's clutching. Her Irish temper threatens to flare for a second before she just rolls her eyes and sighs. "Yes, you're right. Wednesdays. My mistake."

The fuzzy brain between my ears decides that the best thing to do now is snort.

"You got something else to say about that, Don?" Ohhh, and now I've done it. Poked the sleeping tiger right between her stripes.

"Whatever."

"Look, it was a hard trip, okay? I don't wanna fight tonight. I'm gonna finish this damn Sprite and then I'm gonna go to bed."

"Hard, huh?" _Oh man, Don. Shut the hell up while you—_"Hard like you had too many shrink words bouncin' around in your Boston brain? Or hard like some random guy you rode?"

Liz calmly sets the soda can on the counter, then stalks over to the couch and slaps me in the face. She hasn't done that in years—not since the first (and only) time I ever called her a bitch. She's shaking with rage, completely unafraid of how my 6'2'', 195 pound drunk ass might react to being hit. I'm so stunned I have no choice but to listen.

I barely recognize her voice as it utters what I've been afraid of for so long:

"I love you, Donald Flack. You know I do. But you are making me fucking miserable. This city is making me FUCKING MISERABLE!"

I should go to her, should apologize. Should hug her and tell her that it'll be ok. But the alcohol is back in control now. Anger shoots through my body and the butt of my beer bottle meets the table with a loud crash.

"What the hell did you move down here for, then, Lizzie?! We talked about this. I heard it with my own ears while you were sittin' on THIS couch-you said you were sure you wanted to be here."

Her arms raise and drop helplessly to her sides.

"Yeah. That's what I said. And at the time I thought it was true. I was gonna be with you and do my job at the same time and it was all gonna work out. But that was before we started jumpin' on every word we say to each other said instead of you jumpin' me. Before everything became an argument."

The drunk monster that's invaded my body keeps talkin'. "Fine, so you're unhappy. Whatcha gonna do about it?" I put the lager to my mouth again, boring through her tired green eyes with a furious expression.

"_I'm_ unhappy?! That's real rich comin' from someone who's a goddamn mess himself these days."

"Oh, this is about me, now, huh? You tryin' to play some head game with me, Red? Don't feel like takin' responsibility for your problems so you rip on me instead?! I'm doin' just fine, thank you very damn much."

Even as the last words fall from my lips I can hear the fatigue behind their lies. I look around the apartment and catch sight of myself in the mirror on the bedroom door. The guy starin' back at me is blurry, but I can still see purple and blue bags beneath his eyes. The graying black hair on his head is mussed, the strands answerin' to no one. But what cracks my heart open isn't the beer bottle in his fingers.

It's the five empties by the sink Lizzie's lookin' at over his shoulder.

_Dammit, Flack_, I say to myself. _Swallow your fuckin' pride and tell her __you're__ sorry. You lose her, you're gonna lose everything._ But I'm angry, and I'm confused. _I'm a New York cop. S'what I do. I can't be a New York cop anywhere else._

So I chug the rest of the beer, set the bottle down and lurch to my feet. On my way through the kitchen I snort again and shake my head, wonderin' how I could even think about lettin' Red leave. The silence in the apartment becomes unbearable; it's broken only by the sound of the fridge opening. As I reach for another beer, Lizzie's firm voice comes floating over my shoulder.

"Don."

I snap back at my attacker, clipped and quick: "What?"

She tips her chin towards the bottles by the sink and asks, "You gonna save some for me?"

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself. "Well, if you're takin' off, that means I don't have to share."

Those lips I love drop open in shock. "_Excuse me?!_"

"Wow, Liz Ryder at a loss for words, ladies and gentlemen. Somebody take out a fuckin' ad in the Times."

Tears begin to form in the corners of her eyes. I figure she's going to run off cryin' but instead I hear her voice grow cold again, grow stern.

"If you're gonna act like some punk ass teenager then I'm gonna treat you like one. I don't know why you're acting this way, but I'm guessing I hit a nerve by telling you the truth-that you're unhappy."

"Spare me your psychobabble tonight, Lizzie—"

"I'm not finished," she asserts. "I think you're scared to death of doing the same thing for the rest of your life in the same place. That you're gonna end up broken and jaded just like your old man. You know as well as I do that there's more to life than Manhattan high rises and Harlem drug busts, but you're too chicken shit to do something about it. So you dump on me 'cause I got the courage to admit that something's wrong."

The wrinkles in my brow soften a bit, but she keeps charging ahead.

"So if you want to stay here in your big beloved city, I'm not gonna stop you. Keep listening to those sirens scream every night. Keep waitin' for your phone to ring so you can get outta bed at three in the morning to go catch a serial killer. You stay. But I gotta go, D."

She walks over to me and takes my face in her hands, lookin' right through me with those two emerald eyes. Her voice finally waivers as she says, "Don, I love you more than anything and anybody in this crazy, fucked-up world. I do. But I'm dying a little bit every day that I'm here. . .and I think you are too. Can we at least talk about making a life somewhere else?"

My brain is racing as she stands in front of me, waiting for a response. _Please don't leave, baby_, I think. _I don't wanna live without you. I can't live without you._

At first I think about tellin' her she's right. To admit that somethin's wrong. But then the tough kid from Queens who gave his heart to Jess and got hurt so fuckin' bad rears his head and says _Don't even THINK about it. Women come and go, but the city's forever. This is where you belong._

"If you gotta go," I begin, interrupting the sentence with a swig from beer #7, "then you gotta go."

The lady I love sets her jaw, nods once and heads into the bedroom. I hear her yank the cat carrier out of the closet and shepherd Jack onto the blanket inside. "Come on, sweetie," she says softly. "It's okay."

Stalking back into the living room with the cage in one hand, she grabs her still-packed suitcase and without a word wheels it out the door. She doesn't bother to shut the door.

Now I'm glarin' through the doorway at the hall wallpaper. With tears runnin' down my face.


End file.
